Clown Shoe's on the Other Foot
by Darkness13000
Summary: Sideshow Bob is framed for robbery, irony! And he feels the only ones who can clear his name are the very children who have foiled his evil schemes: Bart and Lisa Simpson. Will they help him or turn him in? What if Bart is still on his hit-list?
1. Guilt, My AntiDrug

I, in no way, own these characters or any allusions made. Hope you enjoy.

Ch. 1: Guilt, My Anti-Drug

Revenge. It sounds so ridiculous now, but seemed all too glamorous in the beginning.

Robert was a tall, skinny man, with unimaginable hair of red dreadlocks. His head resembled a palm tree with a yellow trunk and big, red leaves. He was witty and eloquent, despite his occasional bumbling when he was overcome with rage. He was agile and nimble, educated and sophisticated, but unfortunately uncontrollably malevolent. He dressed as a common man that evening, simple business shirt and black pants, much preferred over the orange jumpsuit.

Normally, when let out of prison, yet again, he would immediately pursue this sweet revenge. But his mind became so jumbled recently, he slowed down to think about his priorities and not a complex scheme for a certain little boy's demise. _What did the boy do, exactly?_ He strained to sort out. The child simply wanted to clear the name of his hero, putting the true villain in jail. Robert dwelled on this, decided that he was a true tragic hero, and Bart Simpson wasn't completely to blame. Bart didn't deserve to die for doing what was right, nor did he deserve to be tormented with death threats from a crazy man. Bob would apologize, but it wouldn't clear anything. Mistrust will exist between these two forever.

As for Robert's own tormentor, Krusty the Klown, they have since settled their differences. Krusty had admitted that he was sorry for abusing Bob, and Bob in turn forgave him, then quickly apologized for trying to kill him on multiple occasions. They were almost regarded as friends, but with such different levels of intelligence, it's highly unlikely the two would be seen together keeping up a friendly conversation. That exchange of forgiveness was yet another reason to leave Bart alone, the original cause of their quarrel settled, so why, even after the apologies, did Bob go after him AGAIN?! Bob mentally slapped himself. Why couldn't he have let the defeat go by, instead of humiliating himself further with more failures?

Insanity.

After the incident at the funeral home, trying to cremate Bart alive, Robert officially went insane. Led back to prison, along with his close family, he was finally strapped in a straight jacket to giggle like an idiot as he thought of ways for Bart to perish slowly and painfully. At that moment he was unable to realize that he had dragged his family down with him with his evil plots, cursing them with shame and jail time. Even his poor son Gino was fitted for a prison uniform, having nothing directly to do with this specific case of attempted murder, and only a baby! The warden eventually realized this, and ordered that the child go to a foster home for the time being, his father still babbling incoherently, unable to say his farewell. Separation from her baby destroyed Robert's wife Francesca who, along with Dame Judith Underdunk (Robert's mother), were sent to a women's prison. Knowing that keeping them together would risk them conspiring together, Robert's father and brother Cecil were placed in separate cells, maybe even separate prisons. Robert was never informed.

After being prescribed a few drugs Robert's head started to clear, a little too late. It was a little too late for a lot of things. True, he hated himself for never saying goodbye to his beloved family, but it would have been pleasant if his insanity was controlled before this nightmare ever began. Guilt finally settled in. He had messed up so many lives, not just his own. What he would give for a redo, and never try to murder that innocent boy!

Wishing for the forgiveness of his family, of the world, but knowing he may never receive it, he then became depressed. The idea of revenge faded away like a stranger strolling out of sight down a foggy street. He sought genuine redemption. He dreamt of living happily with his wife and son, but telling himself it was a mere dream made him sink deeper in his funk. He was losing hope of happiness, which caught the eye of the state (whatever it may be).

Then prescribed for dementia and depression, Robert was thought unfit to stay in prison. He was moved to an asylum for a time, a long time, because he refused to take anything for depression at first. He claimed he deserved it, for causing all this grief. He pleaded on several occasions to speak with any member of his family, even Cecil! But his request was denied, which of course didn't help. After several interrogations about his motives for the world, every one of his doctors was convinced that he had abandoned any goals for revenge on Bart Simpson and/or Krusty the Klown. A few thought it was too much a risk to make him a free man, knowing every single time he was given to opportunity to do evil, he took it. However, when looking into his watery, black eyes, all such notions were put aside. Robert vowed to wait for his family and not feel any form of joy until they were reunited. Surely if he could be released so many times, even escape the death penalty, they could be released as well.

So, released once again, he spent most of his miserable time at a bar called Moe's. He didn't drink that much, just felt close at home to be with the company of creatures almost as sorry as he. Other drunks would recognize him from the many headlines involving the words "homicidal maniac" and scoot their seats away, to which Sideshow Bob didn't pay much mind, too involved in his own abysmal thoughts.

The police kept a close eye on him, since being fooled by his charm so many times, they were no longer willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. The Simpson parents were warned that Bob was free once again, but they failed to talk about it with their son. Bart didn't need to be haunted by nightmares, so they simply gave hints to never walk alone or talk to strangers. Being a regular customer at Moe's, Homer Simpson would see Robert frequently, but never built up the rage/courage to yell at his face. Homer would certainly be justified to, but instead he chose to glare and give the expression that he will be watching Bob, and that the clown shouldn't try anything funny.

As his lanky body slumped over that dirty, bar counter, sitting on an uncomfortable stool, Robert Underdunk Terwilliger thought back to his childhood, wondering if he ever once considered to grow up to be a villain. He couldn't recall. He also couldn't remember a moment he dreamt of becoming a TV clown, but he supposed he only took such a position because the opportunity presented itself. The profession sounded glamorous as well, brightening the faces of children and, his own venture, molding their minds into those of intellectuals. Unfortunately it was nothing like he imagined. His suffering was used for other's enjoyment, something anyone would grow to hate. Perhaps that's why he chose revenge, the opportunity presented itself, and just like his career choice, it ruined his life. _If only, if only,_ he thought. If only he never took that job, would he be despised by his brother? Would he have a criminal record miles long? Would he be such a wreck?

On that fateful night, someone finally decided to talk to Robert, becoming the first man he would be willing to call chum in quite some time. Whether it was pity or fascination, he couldn't tell at the time, Robert was relieved to have someone to talk to, his self loathing getting old fairly fast.

"Ya know, I see ya here all the time, but ya never drink anything." The man slurred. He wore a wrinkled white business shirt, khaki pants, and a ragged brown coat. He needed new shoes and a bath, and his roughed up brown hair could use a comb. "And you look like you need a drink." He slapped a hand on Bob's shoulder, putting some money on the table.

"You're too kind, but no thank you." Robert replied politely, but the man shook his head and hands.

"Nah, I insist. I got money to spend. Hey everybody! A round a drinks on me! Hic!" the stranger's offer was met with a roar of approval from his fellow drunks.

Robert would have made a sarcastic comment with better suggestions to spend said money on, but he could tell by the look on this man's face he wouldn't have given up. Best not to embarrass him and take the offer.

But after that drink came another, then another, then another. They just kept coming. Each one Bob tried to decline, but each one was easier to accept. The man must have spent three hundred dollars on drinks for the whole bar. Bob will never know he's a fun drunk, but he will feel great disappointment for temporarily abandoning his sincere, dignified mentality. He spun, he danced, he nearly killed himself trying to do the back flips he was so used to performing with the greatest of ease, but what was the most impressive stunt was his gift of a voice. With his lead the entire tavern broke into song, Robert the only one to not sing off key or mix up any lyrics, even in his stupor.

xXx

Robert awoke in the early morning, a dim sunrise enough to make his tired eyes ache.

"Blasted liquor." He grumbled, the sound of his scratchy voice hurting his delicate ears. "What was I thinking?" He tried to rub his temples, but he ended up smacking his head with a strange, yet familiar object he held tightly in his right hand. "Agh! What is this?" He squinted angrily in his blurry vision to make out the picture, then his eyes went wide as he dropped the pistol like it was on fire.

He spun around frantically and scanned his surroundings. He had passed out in the foliage next to the parking lot of a bank, a few scattered bills fluttering around his large feet. Dreading to think about what he may have done with the firearm he had withdrawn from, he fled the scene of the crime.

"There he is!" An unseen woman screamed with terror, and a few heads turned toward the blur she pointed out.

"Wasn't he running that way?" called out a bystander, pointing in the opposite direction at another similar blur.

"Satan's toenail!" Robert exclaimed. "What the hell is going on?"

Bob gasped but dared not to look back and just kept running, until he concealed himself in the unguaranteed safety of a wooded area.


	2. Must Love Dogs

Ch. 2: Must Love Dogs

"Good morning, Springfield, I'm Kent Brockman. Our top story tonight: We had it coming."

A very anxious Marge sat on the living room couch, wringing her hands as she stared at the TV.

"Including rigging an election, demolishing a theme park ride, attempted murder, and terrorism, convicted felon Sideshow Bob can add armed robbery to his list of heinous crimes…what was that?...He's already robbed something? Well fine then, if you think you would be better at this job…no, no, that's alright. We won't make this a problem." The news anchor straightened his papers and continued. "Well this time, it was a bank, folks. Honestly we have lost count of how many times the man has been released only to immediately do something to get himself thrown back in prison." He chuckled. "It really is a stumper that we haven't discovered the pattern. The ex-clown stole a substantial amount of money, along with some important codes and documents that could allow him to steal even more once safely out of town. According to recent polls, Robert Underdunk Terwilliger is now the most hated man in town, what's your opinion? Well we'd like to know, dial—"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Homer griped. Not connecting Bob with his last name, Terwilliger. "Why can't they just stick to the story and not their stupid poll?"

"Despite how much we despise this man, at least he brings conversation into our meaningless lives. We'll bring you updates with no real additional information as soon as we can." Kent added. He suddenly jumped and brought a finger to adjust a bud in his ear. "This just in, we have actual footage from the bank security camera. Attention, citizens, if you spot this man, do not hesitate to call the authorities loudly and/or beat the degenerate with a board and nail. Keep in mind he is armed and dangerous." The program then cut to the tape, indeed showing a man clad in common clothes, oversized shoes, and a ski mask, wielding a gun and demanding the loot. Most notably, he had that unforgettable, crazy hairstyle.

Little Lisa had heard the bulletin from the kitchen, and rushed into the living room, gaining a fairly perplexed expression. "Why would he wear a mask? His hair's a dead giveaway."

"Such a sick puppy, he just can't stay clean." Marge muttered, her head in her hands.

"You talking about Triumph?" Bart asked casually as he entered, twirling his slingshot in one hand. He froze when all of the solemn eyes of his family fell on him. "What's going on?"

"Boy," Homer, amazingly serious, started. "We need to talk"

xXx

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" Bart retorted angrily, stomping around his room in his pj's and throwing his arms in the air. "What leaves me baffled is that this town still hasn't learned its lesson! When are they going to get that that psycho is never going to change, and they're fools to give him another chance? When are they going to see that Sideshow Bob is a lost cause and should never be allowed to see the light of day?!"

"Calm down, brother." Lisa tried to console, willing to hear Bart vent. He had been ranting for the entire day, losing track of time. The night and all of its horrors came very quickly. "Everyone is looking for him, there's no way he's going to be able to escape or…" She stopped herself, after realizing it wasn't a good time to suggest what Bart was already thinking.

"Get to me, right?" he spat. He fell onto his bed to stare at the ceiling hopelessly. "Let's face it, I'm a dead man. Sooner or later my record's gonna break and so will my neck, unless he still has that knife fetish."

"Don't talk like that, I'm sure everything is going to be fine." Lisa jumped up and sat next to him, feeding him the false hope.

"This isn't TV, it's real life." Bart griped, sitting up. "Not everything's going to get patched up nicely in the end, he will stop at nothing to stalk and threaten me and make me afraid of every little bump in the night!" As if on cue, the siblings heard a scratching noise outside, to which Bart responded by hiding under his covers. Lisa, a bit braver, approached the window and spotted their greyhound, Santa's Little Helper, pawing at the tree trunk in the yard.

"Curious." Lisa remarked, watching her dog's staggering climb up the ladder into the tree house. She also thought it strange that he was carrying the newspaper in his mouth. A few seconds later, he belly flopped out of the tree, scurried off, then came back to drag a worn pillow. He made a few more trips, then remained in the tree house, not making another sound. "That wasn't weird at all. What is he doing up there?" she asked aloud, making her way toward the door.

"Hey, wait!" Bart threw off the covers. "I can't be alone!"

Bart's eyes darted around suspiciously, as his sister climbed. Making one last scan for trouble, Bart joined her, making sure not to look up her nightgown. Lisa hoisted herself through the tree house trap door then pulled Bart's arm up. As they peered in the pitch black darkness of the place, they followed the sound of the dog's panting in one of the corners. They strained their eyes further to make out the structure behind him, the dim highlights from a partly covered moon all that could be seen.

The highlights moved.

The children jumped. It was the lifting of a heavy head which brought empty eyes to look into their fearful ones. They weren't, however, able to notice their guest's lips twitch into a vicious smile.

"Hello, Bart." If they didn't recognize that voice by this time, the kids would do well to call themselves morons. This became a tree house of horror.

"Ah!! Sideshow B—"

Robert cut their scream of terror short. He leapt from his corner, tackled the children, and held their heads to the floor with a hand over both of their mouths as the greyhound tilted his head and observed dumbly.

"Truly, we need a new greeting." Bob said sardonically, his little friends struggling in his grasp. "Children, please listen. I'm innocent, honest!" He implored, far from convincing, little claws tearing at his sleeves. A few months ago he would have enjoyed having this kind of superiority, but at the moment he dreaded to see two youngsters overcome with fear, and at his hand. "I swear, I'm not going to hurt you, I only beg that you hear me out." They looked into his dark eyes, unable to detect a hint of trustworthiness, but instead saw a swirl of the flames of hatred. The more they squirmed the tighter his grip. Their unwillingness to comply was certainly making him want to lean toward violence, but the lick of his new canine friend broke him from his trance. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the affection, finding it difficult to look the children in the eyes again. "Heh, hey, stop that. Down, boy."

_What. The. Hell._ Bart thought as he stilled. Lisa was surprised as well, and once they completely stopped moving, Bob let them go. His free hands then gently nudged the dog away and wiped his face on his shirt. Bart slowly stood up, backing into the farthest corner. "Santa's Little Helper, how could you? Why are you being Sideshow Bob's Little Helper?" Bart felt betrayed as Robert patted the animal on the head. He also looked around to find the things SLH was willing to find for his mortal enemy. Bob had a newspaper, pillow, pen, blanket, even a baseball. It took forever to teach that dog the meaning of fetch!

"For a time my father had a little scamp named Freddie." Bob explained, the sinister tone replaced with reminiscent bliss. "True, there were moments I loathed that miserable creature, considered he must have been as understanding as a human for he would spite me like an overconfident child." He took this chance to glare accusingly at Bart. The child flinched, but sighed with relief when Bob went back to scratching his dog behind the ears. "Yet, there's something to appreciate about the endlessly happy expression, and of course the unconditional love."

"Robbing a bank, Robert?" Lisa interjected. "You must be a glutton for punishment."

"I suppose I can't blame anyone for being so quick to believe that I would do something this reckless." Bob sighed, sitting back down. "But I assure you, this time I am not the criminal. I have been framed."

"Yeah right, I'm calling the cops." Bart threatened, close to jumping out of the tree to make his getaway.

"No, please, stop!" Bob was back on his big feet as he grabbed Bart's arm, reason one being the obvious, he didn't want to be found out. But he also had concerns for the boy, certainly not wishing that he'd break his legs just for a chance at escape. "I know we've never been on good terms, but—"

"Damn right!" Bart pulled his arm free. "You've tried to kill me fifteen times already! Or, gimme a sec. It has to be more than that."

"Really?" Robert scratched his red head with confusion. "Surely it was only six?"

"Trust me, a kid's not going to forget something like that. Plus, you scared the crap out of us, you can't be trusted."

"I sincerely apologize." Bob bowed. "Old habits die hard, child."

"Just why are you here?" Lisa dared to ask.

"Children…I need your help." He fell to his knees, truly humbling himself.

"Why would we help you?" Bart growled, pointing a twitching finger.

"You're the only ones who can!" Bob insisted, doing his best to keep his voice low and sob free. "I won't ever expect your forgiveness, from you two, or from anyone. I'm hated by the entire town, Italy, most certain my family, and I'm nothing but burden to society. But I truly, truly wish to make amends. All I want is to spend the rest of my days making up for my sins, and it's mighty difficult to do so when people are pinning their crimes on me! Cecil tried it once, remember?"

"Yeah," Bart grumbled. "But I also remember that I saved your life that day, but the next time we met, that didn't cross your mind, did it?"

"You're…you're very right." Bob rubbed his temples. "I can't believe I've forgotten that." It was all coming back to him, in small doses. "But-but I had saved your life as well, both of your lives! What an amazing feeling it was, to be a hero."

"Then why, man, why?" Bart questioned. "Why did you return to the _dark side_?"

"I was betrayed by my brother, I was confused! I was convinced that there was no one I could trust, and-and exactly how much of an effort did you make to prove my innocence? Hm?" he snarled, watching the kids' gazes fall shamefully to the floor. He quickly regained his composure. "There is no justifying my actions. I'm as hypocritical as Brutus. But I was also losing my mind. I'm able to control my emotions now, I'm finally aware about the suffering I've caused and I want to make things right. C'mon, children, you never gave me a proper chance to prove I've changed. Can you give me that chance now? In my time of dire need?" His hands closed to add drama to his plea, but the young faces were still unsure. "I…don't deserve it, I know. But surely you don't want the fiend to run free, able to strike again. With the goodness of your young hearts, will you please help me?"

Bart's glare showed no sign of softening as he looked down on this pitiful man who sunk to a new low.


	3. A Bad Feeling About This

Alrighty, Darkness liked typing this story enough to make it to chapter three, yay. Looking forward to seeing what yas think of it :)

Ch. 3: A Bad Feeling About This

"Or, I suppose," Bob sighed, slowly raising himself and stepping back like a cat defeated in a stare down. Judging the look on the boy's face, Bob assumed there wasn't much he could say to earn the children's trust. They could visualize his hair drooping like an animal's ears, accepting the loss and prepared to walk away with his tail between his legs. Sure, he could easily use violence and force them to lend their aide, but he was too tired for that. Too tired to fight, too tired to run, too tired for a lot of things. He wasn't the young, potential serial killer he used to be, the many failures made sure of that. "You can alert the authorities, I'll scurry away, and gradually lose all hope for a prosperous future. It's just one more blotch on my record, no biggie." It sounded like he was trying to appeal with guilt, close to a sob at the end of his sentence, which still wasn't enough to sway Bart, but in actuality Bob was slipping back into one of his depression episodes. A dangerous place for the ex criminal.

"I think you know the answer." Bart replied, causing Bob to nod knowingly and turn around to leave, but make one more stop.

He dragged his large feet back to the corner to pet the dog one more time before he scooped up the newspaper, flipped through it for a second, then furrow his brows. "Does your family not get a daily newspaper?" He asked aloud. "This isn't even from this month."

"Well, Dad's having a bit of a showdown with the paper boy." Lisa explained. "Apparently someone's still sore about having his bike stolen so a grown man could catch up with the ice cream truck."

"But you children certainly waste the majority of your lives in front of a television set, so please, tell me this one thing." Bob made another deep sigh, deep dread clinging to his thoughts. "Did...did I hurt anyone?"

"Wha?" it was too vague of a question for Lisa to answer.

"At the bank, I had a firearm, was anyone harmed?" Robert was getting edgier when the child hesitated to speak. His hands shook feverishly as he grabbed her shoulders.

"Hey, let her go!" Bart snarled, raising his tiny fists. He knew very well, however, that if Bob was going to hurt Lisa, there was little her big brother could do about it. He absolutely hated that helpless feeling, but very much willing to hate Bob more.

"Did I hurt anyone?!"

"N-no, no." Lisa finally answered, staring fearfully into his dark eyes. "No one was hurt." She started to tremble in his grasp, and once he realized this he promptly let go and moved a tuft of his hair away from his face.

"G-good, thank you." The etches and tiny nervous wrinkles vanished from under his crazy eyes as he relocated his cool. "I'll be going then, sorry for the trouble…sorry for everything, I guess." He barely got one toe down the ladder.

"Wait, Sir." Lisa stopped him. "Maybe, I don't know, we can, uh, give you this one chance?"

"What?!" Bart stomped up to his sister, venom dripping from his words. "What are you thinking? You know he's gonna double-cross us!"

"My instincts are telling me that he really didn't do it," Lisa claimed, afraid to look Bart in the eyes. "And something about this whole robbery thing is fishy. Don't ask me why, I just somehow believe him. I mean, if he wanted to kill us he would have done so by now, dontcha think?"

"It's your stupid instincts that are gonna get us killed." Bart glared back at his enemy, who chose to stand on the sidelines as the siblings quarrel. It reminded Robert of his own rivalry with his little brother; how he pined for simpler times. But this was his judgment day, no time for comfort. "You've played the victim role before, Bob, and there's no way any of us are going to fall for it."

"Bart, listen." Lisa placed a hand on her brother's shoulder and redirected his ire. "I've been watching the news as you ranted all day, they say a few new things about him. For one, he's taking medication to control his urges for murder."

"Th-that's right!" Bob exclaimed, failing to mention the fact he has yet to take said medication for the day. Best exclude such a detail.

"And two, whoever did rob the bank wasn't very Bob-like at all. They've played the tape nonstop all day, I was able to notice how sloppy he was, and his language wasn't near as sophisticated. No witty banter, no usage of foreign languages, and absolutely no reference to Shakespeare."

"So what? The man is an actor, more than that he's crazy, there's no telling what he'll do." Bart defended, or in this case attacked.

"C'mon, Bart. He's right about one thing. After he saved us, we didn't vouch for him very well. In a way he's giving US a second chance." Lisa argued, making a better attempt to keep her voice down than her hotheaded brother.

"You're saying that you'd like to keep a convicted felon in our own back yard? Better hope he doesn't sneak into your room at night and show you your intestines." Bart suddenly stopped when he saw Bob grimace in the corner of his eye, not expecting that kind of reaction from him.

"Well…yeah, it's a risk, but during the day we won't even be here. We'll be out there, finding the real thief!" Lisa showed her determined face, though a little cocky.

"You mean?" Robert began to beam. Bart looked back and forth between their glances, feeling the preasure for his answer, then reluctantly gave in with a very childish pout and mumble.

"Fine, fine, I'll help my mortal enemy, if that makes you happy."

"Oh, grazie, children!" Robert unexpectedly bundled them into a hug, not detecting their shudders. Lisa smiled politely but also apologetically to a very disturbed Bart, currently shuddering. "And I give you my word, I shall not cause you any more grief."

"Bleh," Bart stuck out his tongue, almost missing the strangle hold. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

xXx

"Ok, where to start." Lisa found her Malibu Stacey brand notebook and pen (basically a regular notebook and pen, but in pink), and tapped her chin as if in thought. The three remained sitting inside the tree house, making sure to speak softly as they kept talking well into the night. Still, Bart kept his distance, eyeing Bob distrustfully every few seconds. "I guess I should ask you where were you the night before the crime. It was carried out pretty early in the morning, you know."

"Yeah, can't a criminal mastermind be able to piece together his own enemy's plot?" Bart mused, sitting on the side with his arms crossed. Half lidded eyes continued to stare accusingly, despite the truce. Bob didn't seem to mind, he could understand the awkwardness of the situation.

"I can't remember much," Robert answered, clutching his aching cranium. He had nothing to eat or drink all day, and certainly no time to sleep. That couldn't be healthy. "I had this, ug, horrible—"

"Hangover?" Lisa tried to finish. Bob let go of his head to look down on the child pitifully.

"…It's really sad that children your age know what a hangover is, but yes."

"I'd never expect a gentleman like you to get plastered." Lisa said as she jotted something down.

"Normally I wouldn't, but this chap at the bar simply kept throwing the damn glasses at me." Robert muttered angrily, no longer careful about the language he was using in front of the youngsters, now that he was certain they've heard it all, very likely worse things, before. "Seriously, he must have spent a fortune."

"Hmm…maybe that's it!" an idea clicked in the blonde girl's head. "I think whoever bought those drinks was trying to get you drunk so that he could frame you!"

"A possibility." Bob considered, though a bit embarrassed for not thinking of it sooner. He blamed his cloudy mind on the throbbing headache. "But he bought drinks for everyone."

"That's just so no one would be suspicious." Lisa surmised, a smug grin on her face. "He wanted to make sure you had a few, correct?"

"Hm, he _was_ persistent. And it does seem odd that anyone would want to give and attempted murderer liquor." Robert's eyes narrowed with suspicion, then he began to answer Lisa's sure to be second question. "Unfortunately, I can't recall much about his appearance. The whole night is hazy, though I believe he was wearing a khaki coat."

"What a load of crap." Bart thought aloud, turning his head to the window of his tree house.

"Bart," Lisa said with a warning tone. "Keep an open mind."

"Yeah, or he'll open it for me." Bart changed his position so he didn't even have to look at Bob, though it didn't change much. It was chilling enough to hear his voice. "I'm only here to make sure someone can call for help when he turns on you."

"I find your lack of faith disturbing. But not to worry, I'll prove myself sooner or later." Bob told him with rising confidence, an unsettling smile returning to his face.

"Hey, why are your shoes untied?" Lisa asked, finally noticing. Apparently Bob just noticed as well, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm not sure, actually. I almost tripped over them when I was running in the woods. I guess my thoughts were too occupied with the fear of capture for me to bother tying them. Heh, finding a gun in my hand was most frightening." His mind on it, he finally stopped to tie them, Lisa, meanwhile, having another stroke of genius.

"The real thief was borrowing your shoes, and after he placed the gun in your hand, he put them back on your feet. Either people were coming or you were waking up, so he had no time to tie them." After she took the time to recite it, she made sure to write it down.

"Brilliant!" Bob exclaimed. "So we have some of the story, but how do we track the bastard down?"

"You obviously can't go looking." Lisa instructed, standing up. "Bart and I will have to look for more clues on our own. You should remain hiding here, it has to be better than the bushes."

"Ugh, so we have to waste a perfectly good summer day to help him?" Bart whined.

"Hey, it's actually a much better use of our time." Lisa remarked as she rolled her eyes. "Otherwise we'd be spending it rotting our minds with cartoons and videogames."

"Ten minutes ago you would have said those same words but in a much more positive tone." Bart returned to his pouting.

xXx

The approaching morning, the two Simpsons didn't have much trouble getting to the scene of the crime, the yellow tape was removed very quickly. The bank wasn't even closed, but it might as well have been. A few curious groups of people gathered in the parking lot to gawk and take snapshots, but there was no longer a point to step inside. The poor workers inside were bored out of their skulls.

"Um, excuse me." Lisa tried to get the attention of one of the workers behind the counter, but she was fast asleep.

"Huh, with all the excitement this morning, you'd think everyone here would be on their toes." Bart commented.

"Nah, I saw her in the tape, she was sleeping then too. Someone hasn't had her coffee." Lisa looked around, found the security cameras on the ceilings, then checked the floors. "There has to be something here that could either prove Bob was never here or that gives us a lead to the real criminal. A fingerprint, a name tag, anything." It was then Bart who had to roll his eyes, to think that solving a case could be that easy, and that his little sister could be so tenacious about it. Lisa spotted a single leaf on the ground, and picked it up, then spun it around with two fingers. "Ooo, this will go great with my leaf collection. I don't think I have one in this color, I better have it pressed right away." And she was so easily amused; Bart held back a laugh at her fascination with nature.

"Hey," Bart interrupted, oddly interested. "Kinda matches a certain homicidal maniac's hair."

"You're right…now Bob did say he was hiding in the woods, but that doesn't explain how it ended up here if that was after the robbery." Lisa tilted her head to the side in thought, while Bart crossed his arms and mentally smacked himself for bringing it up.

"Look, I was just pointing something out, you don't have to get all technical about it."

Lisa sighed.

"I'm just trying to do a good job, no detail can be left unchecked. You could at least act like you care." She placed the leaf in her notebook, slammed it with a bit more force than needed, and turned away from her incorrigible sibling.

"Lis, finding a leaf the same color as a man's hair is cute, but doesn't make us any closer to finding the real thief." He made his way toward the door. "We should go to Moe's, ask if he knows anything. That's the only bar I can think of that would let anyone in, no matter what past. "

"That's the Bart I know. Great idea!"

xXx

While the pint sized sleuths were away, Bob had time to think about what else he had forgotten. He still couldn't believe that he had brushed off the fact that he had saved lives before and that a wonderful feeling came with it. Why didn't he continue to play the hero? And that his own life had been saved by his former mortal enemy, yet his murderous intentions took back control so easily. He shook his head shamefully, realizing that for a depressingly short while he and poor Bart were related. Perhaps if he didn't snap during his and Selma's honeymoon, if that unexpected attempted murder never crossed his twisted mind, in time he would have made a nice uncle for Bart. All things considered, he was glad things didn't work out for him and that scratchy voiced woman, so that he could one day wed the true love of his life, Francesca. However, after all the trouble he's caused for her, he wondered if he would ever see her or his beloved son again. Still, getting back on the subject, once family, always family, right? Bart did end up to be a major part of his life, aside from being on top of his hit list.

He clutched a walkie-talkie the kids left with him, saying they wouldn't use it much, but if they had anything they were comfortable with telling him on the spot, they would let him know. He was told not to call them unless he was called first, the coast being clear, but he was ever so tempted to pour his soul out, and beg for Bart's forgiveness once more. He had the beautiful words all laid out in his head, but he knew that if he even tried to start, he'd forget his lines instantly. He had to be satisfied with torturing himself with the notion that they will never be good chums, but at least they were no longer foes.

Meanwhile, the kids had just as little trouble getting into the bar as they did getting into the robbed bank. None of the adults made a single glance toward them as they hopped up onto the stools, with a bit difficulty for being so short. It's like they were invisible, except of course to the keeper of this establishment.

"What'll it be?" Moe asked half heartedly, making a quick motion across the counter, already dirty rag in hand. The only things it cleaned off were peanut shells, and even then they only ended up on the sticky floor. Moe was a creepy, cross old man with a hunch and an everlasting glare. He was good company for low lives, but disgusting towards most women and fearsome for children. He had several issues, but he had some good in him, which what the Simpsons strained to look for.

"Won't you get in trouble for serving minors?" Lisa asked.

"Minors?" Moe was taken aback. "I could have sworn I've known you kids for twenty years now." Obviously he knew the faces of one of his best customer's children very well.

"Look, Moe. We know that Sideshow Bob was here last night, and we want to know if anything strange happened." Lisa was quick to get down to business.

"Sideshow Bob, huh? Man, that guy's a freak. You two better be careful, he's still on the loose ya know." Moe returned to cleaning the glasses, again with the dirty rag. His gaze shifted towards Bart with concern. "Hey, and doesn't he have a beef with you, kid? You had to be sore when they let him out again."

"I can honestly say I was." Finally, Bart found some common ground, someone who was sane about the matter.

"Well, don't worry, he'll get what's coming to him eventually. Justice finds a way, believe me…or is it karma? Can't tell which is which." Moe realized he got sidetracked. "Yeah, the freak was here. For a long time too, one of the last to leave for the night."

"Did he leave with some one?" Lisa readied her pen.

"Now that I think about it, yeah. And that guy was even more of a bum, a nut-job, except that he bought the mother-load of booze for everyone."

"Do you know what they talked about?"

"Are you suggesting that I eavesdrop on my customers?" Moe was answered with blank expressions. "Ok, ya caught me, you ain't working for the police, arntcha?"

"No, this is a private investigation."

"Aw, ain't that cute? Sure I'll talk, but ya didn't hear anything from me."

"Gotcha." Lisa said with a wink.

"Ok, the guy said he was a fan of the freak back in the day. Said he loved the cannon bit."

"Did he say anything that may give Bob the idea to rob a bank?"

"No, not really. That guy could use some money though, oh boy."

"Didn't he spend a great deal on drinks?"

"Yeah, he spent his unemployment check on 'em. I almost felt guilty drowning him in his misery."

"Unemployment? Was he fired?" This attracted Bart's attention, finally part of the chat.

"Nah, business failed. Now weren't we talking about Sideshow Bob?"

"Yes, right, um…well this guy might be able to give us more information, do you know where he lives?"

"What makes you think I know that?" Moe asked innocently, a bit of a crack in his voice. Again, he received a blank stare. "Fine, fine, I'll write it down." As he accepted the notebook and pen from the girl, the kids diverted their attention to a TV hanging in the corner of the ceiling, playing a familiar News Channel jingle. The barkeep and the kids were the only ones energetic enough to make the effort and lift their heads toward the screen, and watch the news break.

"This just in! Police have discovered a note left in the Chief Wiggum's mailbox, from a certain Sideshow Bob." The kids stiffened, wondering if Bob could possibly be stupid enough to do such a thing. "Authorities say it is written in blood, a trait found in past threatening letters to local Bart Simpson, but the message leads to a much different motive." Kent cleared his throat. "Here we have a copy, and it states, 'Dear Springfield, Ha ha.'" Somewhere, sitting on some couch, is an elementary school child griping about how that was his bit. "'I have stolen all your money and don't even plan to spend it. I'll destroy it, and then myself. You can be sure I'll go out with a bang.'" Brockman slapped the paper back on his desk, then addressed the public. "Folks, if nothing else, this proves the man is off his rocker."

Both Bart and Lisa did not buy it for a second. Bob was not one for suicide, he was too proud. He may have been tired but he was no coward, so why would he suggest it? Lisa's brain clicked once more, a horrible realization coming to mind.

"Bart, do you know what this means?" Lisa whispered loudly as she dragged her brother to the side. It didn't take a genius, but it had to be said. "The real thief is going to make sure that no one rats him out, he's going to make sure Sideshow Bob doesn't talk!" Apparently it did take a genius, because Bart stared blankly back. Lisa grunted with frustration and balled her hands into fists. "He's going to kill him!"


	4. Don't Shoot the Messenger

Happy Birthday Simpsons!!!...I think, maybe? *shrug* Anyways, enjoy!

Ch.4: Don't Shoot the Messenger

"Kids!" Marge's shrilled voice called, stepping outside and peering around like a meerkat. "Are you still playing in your tree house?" Worried about her precious babies, she wanted them inside, where she could protect them and put her own mind at ease. She made her way toward the tree as if in slow motion, or at least to the anxious eyes of Bob who watched her every move while his heart tried to escape his chest, as if it were to leave his empty vessel behind to suffer the consequences alone.

Trembling as he spotted Marge climbing up the ladder, he had little time to think, and certainly a lot of pressure to act, rushed calculations buzzing in his head! He'd have to move like lightning, and at the precise moment where she wouldn't see him either from the trap door or the tree house window frame. If Marge sees him he's done for; he was in no mental state to harm a woman after his treatment and quite frankly, still not taking care of his mortal needs very well as of late, he was most likely no match for any angered Mama Bear physically. Knowing her view would be briefly blocked and unable to see him by the window, he wondered if his frail frame still had enough strength to leap to Bart's window, done so with the greatest of ease when his intent was savory sweet revenge and not bitter worry of capture. Despite his recent luck, the window had been left open, giving him the sign that he had to try. It was do or die, he supposed, and perched on the frame of the tree house like a frog, slender fingers curling around the edge while his big feet balanced him on both sides, he leapt forward and through the boy's window like a circus hoop for dolphins. He somersaulted in the air, and landed safely on the unoccupied, unmade bed, but then panted like a dog. That one bound was such an exhausting effort, but he knew he had to keep moving.

He realized he had to drink something, NOT alcohol, or he wasn't going to make another day. Whether he mused that he would die of dehydration, end up easily caught due to his lack of energy, or destroy his beautiful voice (which would kill a treasured part of him), he needed a cup, a swig, a DROP of precious, life giving water. He swore he could feel the paleness in his face, and the warmness of color drifting away. His ears open the entire day, he knew the kids were out with their detective work, Mr. Homer had gone to work, and Marge would still be looking outside, then most definitely making a call to Bart's friend, Milhouse, whom Bart told to lie and say he and his sister was there for unexplained reasons. Switching to stealth mode, he planned to scour this house for sustenance.

He creeped out of Bart's room, eyes darting up and down the hall, then slowly stepping toward the stairs. He perked up like a startled mouse and softly scrambled into the nearest room when he heard Marge open the door, then trudge toward the staircase. He took in his surroundings and found himself in little Maggie's room, the baby herself gaping at him with wide, intrigued eyes. Fearful that she might cry at the sight of such a sickly looking stranger, and one who had tried to murder her only brother many times before, he scooped up the pacifier that had fallen from the crib and offered it to the child as a peace offering. Hearing Marge enter her own bedroom and close the door, he kept his voice soft, but soothing to the tyke.

"Hello little one, don't mind me." He chuckled nervously. "Uncle Bob's just playing hide and go seek with…uh…everyone! So you'll keep it a secret, ah?"

Maggie accepted the pacifier gratefully then clapped her hands and giggled. She understood most of his words, and as if as perceptive as the adults she put a finger over her mouth, then popped her pacifier in.

"Good, very good girl!" Bob flattered the child further. As he gazed on this innocent he smiled softly, thinking of Gino, and how he too giggled playfully at one time, instead of cackling evilly to mimic his once sadistic father. His thoughts back on this particular baby, he considered that Maggie had yet to cause him any grief, the one Simpson child that had not wronged him, and even if he had sworn vendetta on all the Simpsons, he couldn't think of a reason to harm such a pure soul. However, for a couple of seconds his thoughts were once again dark and vengeful, as the child tugged suddenly on a tuft of his colorful hair.

"Ah ha, let's not hurt me now. Let go please." Gritting his teeth to hold back his malice, he gently pulled Maggie's tiny hands away from him then he patted her on the head. "I need to hide, remember?" Looking around, hearing Marge coming his way, he jumped into the little girl's closet and hid behind the mountain of baby toys, baby clothes, and packages of diapers. He closed the double doors and looked through the wooden blinds, watching the worried mother enter and check on her still dependent daughter. The woman's face shone with a certain gladness that she can keep this one close, and she had yet to worry about her baby crawling into the cruel real world and invoking the wrath of a madman.

"And how is my sweet sugar cookie this morning?" Marge asked with a babified tone. "You ready for your bottle? Come here sweetie." Bob, though cautious, watched Marge lift her child lovingly and hold her close. Again, he smiled and calmed his nerves, visualizing his beautiful bride cradling young Gino so tenderly. It was a beautiful sight, he decided, and if he wasn't starving, slowly dying he might even put it (no room for euphemisms), he might have enjoyed it. But then his heart jumped to his throat when Santa's Little Helper trotted into the room, prepared to follow Marge at her heels to beg her and the tiny human for scraps. His ears perking up at the slightest movement, the dog turned his head toward the closet, then let his tongue hang out as he gave Bob a smile. Now one of the dog's familiar playmates, Bob regretted ever associating himself with the animal, realizing his new friend was his own downfall. The greyhound barked and scratched at the closet door, begging Bob to play fetch with him.

"What is it, boy?" Marge questioned, looking at the closet handle with a troubled expression. "Is it that rat again? You can get 'im, you can get 'im! Just let me open the door." The slow motion returned, and Bob instinctively backed himself into a corner. He was dead! "Just make sure you get it out of the house boy, I don't want to see it!" How very much Bob didn't want to be seen at that moment. He shivered and braced himself for the frightened shriek he was in for, and the rant and the cops and the hell all over again. Not wishing to see her first reaction, he closed his eyes tight, then waited for the creak of the door and the scream of the poor woman, kissing any hope for freedom goodbye. Able to hear his own pulse, then hear it silenced, he flinched at the sound of the cry that rang in everyone's ears, but slowly opened one eye.

That scream couldn't have been the woman; it sounded more like the bleat of a sheep. Opening both eyes, he saw the doors were still closed, and the dog had turned its head to look at the wailing baby.

"What is it? What is it?" Marge asked distressed, rubbing Maggie gently on the back and telling her soothingly to calm down. She gasped. "Oh, your pacifier!" Marge found it on the floor, picked it up, brushed it off, and put it back in the child's mouth. Maggie gradually calmed down, drying her eyes and making garbled baby sounds. "There there, it's ok." Marge reassured, holding Maggie on her shoulder. "Let's go get that bottle." Completely forgetting about the "rat", she walked out the door with the dog following her, reminded of his previous mission to beg.

Bob sighed with relief and near passed out from the tension he had built up inside, the adrenalin a little much for him. Looking back once more, he noticed Maggie had been looking his general direction, taking the pacifier out of her mouth. She smiled as he looked perplexed, then she placed her pointer finger in front of her lips, then she popped the pacifier back in. Bob blinked, confused, but grateful, in debt to the child, then he rubbed his tired eyes. He wasn't sure if what he had just seen was real or imagined, but he made a mental note.

_When this is over, schedule a play date with Maggie for Gino._

xXx

"Oh ho!" Bart laughed, quite heartily, letting the sun's light cover his face and make visible every feature of his growing happiness and approval of the news he had just heard. "This is so sweet, I can't wait to tell him!"

"Bart," Lisa began, sadness hidden in her voice. "How can you say that? Bob's psyche is so fragile, you don't know how he'll react." They were resuming their journey home, knowing they had to tell their client he was in greater danger than he realized, but not comfortable telling him by walkie-talkie. "He could take it pretty badly, maybe violently." Lisa suggested. Bart's smug grin told his sister that he pictured the future differently.

"Or he'll be scared, and he'll finally know what it's like!" They kept their voices low, but not whispering; that'd look suspicious. But not a soul stood nearby, the neighborhood sidewalks deserted for the time being. The sunny day and Bart's smiling face detracted from the eeriness of it all. "He'll know what I had to deal with. Oh yeah, he so had this coming!" The boy obviously enjoying himself and reciting what he was going to say in his mind, Lisa stared at the ground and counted the concrete tiles they treaded over, dreading to tell Robert for more humane reasons. She saw fear and sadness in Bob's eyes already, and it was enough to tug on her heartstrings and help the man, and she was not looking forward to seeing it again, and magnified. Bart, so consumed in giving Bob a taste of his own medicine, excited to tell him in person, strolled on with head held high, completely clueless to his little sister's conscience, and the pain he was about to cause.

The kids first made a stop inside their home to make sure their mother saw their return, and relieve her fears. To avoid suspicion they carried out a few of their usual summer day activities such as a video game or two, then reported back to their tree house. Fists clenched and weak hearts unsteadily prepared for what to say and how to respond, they climbed the ladder and found their fugitive with his head rested on the worn pillow, in a light doze.

Bart laughed again, softly and devilishly, almost rubbing his hands together like a villain in one of his comic books. He eyed the man like a vulture then approached him like he was defenseless prey. Lisa placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pulled him a step back.

"Let him sleep a little." She whispered harshly. "He's been through so much lately, he needs to rest some time or he's going to go insane."

"It's a little late for that." Bart answered calmly. "He's prescribed crazy, how much crazier can he get?" He pulled away and took another step forward.

"Don't, Bart." Lisa stopped him. "This is cruel. He probably hasn't had a good sleep in weeks. You can tell him later."

Bart was growing aggravated with the overly concerned, emotion controlled, sympathy gushing girl. He gave her a sharp glare as if to say, "Stay out of it. Just let me do it." And she frowned heavily in response, but let him alone. He turned back to his former enemy, soon to be captive audience, and let his shadow fall on him ominously as the other had done to him before. Bob slept on his side, his back facing the children, and now a small hand nudging his shoulder. If his hearing was not his strength while in slumber, as they whispered and creaked floorboards, then he was surely extremely sensitive to touch. His eyes shot open wide, then narrowed with anger, pupils shrinking smaller than pin points, as he rolled over, swung to his feet, and clasping both hands tightly around Bart's neck, he slammed the child roughly against the wall.

Lisa would have made a loud gasp, perhaps even a scream, but she shielded her own mouth as her brother lost all of his building confidence, like it came down after a blow of dynamite. Instead of the great pleasure of delivering Bob any news, Bart transformed back into the terrified little child that Bob knew all too well, and immediately recognized after his eyes focused.

"Oh-oh my God." Bob trembled and lowered the shivering boy to the floor, stepping back and wringing his own hands. "I'm dreadfully s-sorry, I-I didn't know. I've never dealt with surprise very well. I-I'm so sorry." As Bob pleaded for forgiveness, Bart slowly slid to the floor, his hands around his own neck, deaf to any other sounds besides his own heavy breathing and heartbeat.

"You maniac!" He growled, would have shouted loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but his voice was broken due to the sudden blow.

"I'm sorry!" Bob said again, and again and again, an attempt to quite down Bart's next words, sure to be many insults and threats to turn him in. "It'll never happen again, I swear!"

"It's ok, Bob." Lisa said, understandingly. "You're on the edge. Bart shouldn't have snuck up on you." Bart glared at her again, for making him seem like the guilty party.

_Bob tries to break my neck, and I'M at fault?!_

Bob sighed and held his head in his right hand, his blood rushing, the room spinning. He had gotten up too fast and was still half asleep, giving him a headache, but he couldn't make himself care about that.

"Are you alright, Bart?" He asked warily.

"I'm fine." He grumbled. The fact that Bob cared at all caught Bart off guard, but that wouldn't stop him from answering rudely.

"G-good." Bob slumped in a corner, taking a deep breath and gathering his bearings. "So, you have some new information for me?" He asked with rising spirits. Bob's cheerful demeanor, after all this crap he's had to take, struck the children like arrows, Bart included. Their silence told Bob a different story. "Oh, well, it's all right. We can't expect to know everything in just a few hours. I trust you children are doing your best."

_The chump._ Bart thought angrily. _Why is he putting so much faith in us? We're just kids, we can't fix everyone's problems, especially when our toughest problem our entire lives has been HIM!_ Bob dismissed Bart's angry gaze as a grudge for almost strangling him and kept on waiting patiently for his answer, with maybe not a smile but not a bleak frown.

"Well, yes, actually, um," Lisa danced cautiously around her words. "We have a lead, but not a name. We're going to go check out a certain home that might have your k-f-framer."

"Splendid!" Bob exclaimed, not detecting her struggle with her sentence. "Sounds like you're close, how impressive. That didn't take long at all."

"Heh, yeah." Lisa laughed nervously. "We've had a lot of practice, I guess." Bob smiled again, with half lidded eyes, elatedly familiar with what practice they've had.

Bart's forced angry expression faded away as he groaned pitifully, ashamed of what he was going to say but knowing it had to be said. Bob looked towards him with concern, but more for the boy than for himself at the moment. Bob felt guilty for being a thorn in Bart's side, and even more so for interfering with his childhood, usurping his lazy summer days.

"What's wrong?" He asked honestly. "Did something happen? Or is it—well, did I mention I was sorry? Sorry for making you feel like you had to do this, I mean. I didn't mean to become such a burden."

"No, that-that's not it." Bart replied forcefully, as if frustrated with Bob for his courtesy. "We just have something else to tell you." Robert's shift in position and eye contact alerted Bart he was all ears, and hanging on every word. Bart looked to the floor for support for a few seconds before looking back up, becoming afraid (sharing Lisa's empathy) to share this information but aware that this potential murder target had the right to know.


	5. Bad News, Everyone

For the record, I have a Bob plushie. Knitted it myself for my collection of characters I obsess over for a given amount of time :)

Ch. 5: Bad News, Everyone

Bart sighed deeply, exasperated with his fresh inner conflict, perhaps leaving his body and having a hollow shell speak to Bob for him. "You were on the news today."

"Is that so?" Bob's smile faded and he braced himself for the damage. "What are they saying?"

"Well," Bart swallowed a lump in his throat. "They found a note from you in Chief Wiggum's mailbox." Bob raised an eyebrow and shook his head in disagreement.

"But I didn't write any note."

"We know you didn't." Lisa interjected. "The thing is, the real criminal forged a note from you with his own blood. Since they're aware you've done that before, they accept that you'd do it again in a heartbeat. And-and it said—" She couldn't say it, diverting her gaze. This, of course, only made Robert feel more anxious.

"What? What did the degenerate say?" He inquired encouragingly, aware of their fear of punishment for a distasteful answer and wanting to do away with it. "I can take it, just spit it out. No lugi shall earn you my wrath." He turned away and began to frown, but at his imaginary enemy and not the nervous children, so that whatever expression flashed across his face, it wouldn't daunt them more.

"It was a suicide note." Bart spat obediently, shutting his eyes tight and clenching his fists at his sides. "And that means that to make it the perfect crime, he'll cut you up and make a clean getaway." Silence fell on the three like an anvil, the walls of the already small room closing in. The children took short, cautious breaths as the man took one deep gasp of oppressive air, emitting a sigh with similarities to the hiss of a snake. Bob was frozen, completely understanding the gravity of it all.

He slowly placed his hands in his pockets, as if to pull out a secret weapon that would do away with the new, heavy problem on his mind, then whistled. This confused the Simpsons but they dared not ask why. Not a cheerful tune but a quick, sharp note that pierced the thick tension of the air and called man's best friend, in earshot. Santa's Little Helper came bounding to the treehouse, extending front paws at the base of the ladder, and wagging his tail, waiting for further orders. Hearing the dog's arrival, Bob stepped lightly towards the trap door to meet him, with the most deadpan of faces. The greyhound grinned, tilting his head as he looked up into the man's glazing eyes. Bob only bent slightly over, growled the word "fetch", then trudged to a corner and waited for the dog to respond. SLH barked once to show he understood, then scurried into his dog house to rummage through his many toys.

"Bob," Lisa spoke up timidly. "What is he getting for you?" She looked around at the toys and trinkets Bob had already acquired and scattered about and couldn't guess what else he would want, or how their dog would know what it was. Bob remained still and silent, not acknowledging her suitable question. "Bob?" She would have questioned further, but with every word spoken in this heavily dismal treehouse, Bob's eyes grew darker, so she shut her trap and awaited the return of their dog and possibly a comforting answer.

He paced up and down the floor boards like an animal in the zoo. Bart watched him intently, gruesome features of such animals seeping in and becoming a part of the creature he regarded as a monster. The wild mane of the ferocious lion could very well be compared to his crazy red hair. He had a slight hunch, like the scouring vulture. The easiest trait to imagine, however, were the sharp, piercing, ripping, bloodstained teeth of a wolf's, growing inside of a muzzle that was already gnashing and growling.

"Dude, what's wrong with you?" Bart spat aloud, ignoring the angered man's warning gestures.

"I haven't been able to go home and get my pills, and with the added vexation of everyone in Springfield on my tail, I'm a tiny bit on the edge." The man explained, stopping in his tracks and pinching an invisible speck from the air, emphasizing this tiny edge. He then pretended to crush the speck, with his death grip of a fist. "No one puts Bobby in a corner!"

"Bob…are you scared?" Lisa asked compassionately, wiping the fury from Robert's face momentarily. Thinking about it, he ran his other unclenched hand through his hair. Her concern reminded him he could be treated like a human and not a trapped animal.

"I suppose it would be brave, but a bit foolish to say I'm not." He decided. "I'm as wary as the next when it comes to the realization a mad man is out to kill you, while the rest of the world is against you—"

"Welcome to my world." Bart growled as he whipped around, crossed his arms, and made the emptiest stare he could muster at a blank wall.

"… while you're completely detached from your loved ones" Bob finished, pausing for Bart's reaction, then resuming his pacing. Bart turned his head slightly, very much wanting to show Bob his unsympathetic gaze, but he failed to realize his brows crinkled at Bob's last words, suggesting he rethought his statement.

With the pat pat of four feet coming closer, then the tap tap of claw crawling up wooden steps, the children cleared a path for SLH to approach Robert with a shiny kitchen knife held tightly in his jaws. Bob rewarded the dog's favor with a scratch under the chin, then accepted the silverware and examined it thoroughly. A smooth black handle with a blade six inches long, Robert ran a finger down its edge and rested it on the tip, delicately enough to not pierce his own skin. It might have been for chopping carrots, but if wielded expertly, and Bob knew his daggers, it could easily kill a man. The familiar image of his foe with a weapon, and with a distant gaze like a predator lying in wait, soaking into Bart's mind revived his instincts to run like the prey he once was. Instead, he demanded an explanation.

"Whatcha gonna do with that?" Bart asked boldly, snapping Bob out of his trance.

"Forgive me, children. I'm aware this picture isn't very pretty." Bob held the knife behind his back, as if thinking that if they can't see it, they wouldn't remember he had it. "I ask that you continue to keep my staying here secret, but also, avoid this tree as much as possible. If I am found out and my adversary comes for me, I promise you I will use my right to self defense." His fingers that curled around the knife gripped a bit harder. "But I will not see you innocents caught in the crossfire." Though completely true, his deeper reason was much more frightening. He hadn't had his pills in a while as mentioned, and he wasn't sure if with the opportunity and the weapon at hand that he could resist slicing Bart up like ice-cream cake. He had been able to control his madness quite easily the past few weeks, but never risking to go a few days without medication. He feared the Simpsons's lives as he feared his own; even at that second he had no appeal to kill his former foes, but how much longer could his sanity last? With mental pressure only building?

xXx

"I don't like it either, Bart." Lisa quipped, a safe distance from Bob in the boy's room, windows shut and locked. "He's dangerous, he's on the edge, but his reasons are noble."

"Noble nothing. He's going to double cross us tonight." Bart, so sure of himself, kept his slingshot close, hiding other secret weapons in various places. A handful of dirt to blind his enemy in a bag in his pocket, a hammer under his pillow, bat under the bed next to one of his sister's jump ropes to strangle, and his Swiss-army knife held firmly in a hand with yellow knuckles turning white over a sweaty palm.

"So you won't be getting any sleep." Lisa surmised, Bart's answer a click of his blade, hardly intimidating, but proving a point. "Well, tomorrow we're still visiting our suspect. If it'll make you feel better that'll get us away from him for a while."

"We should call the police now."

"We should get our facts straight so we can end this. My conscience won't survive the guilt of sending an innocent to jail." Lisa opened the door to leave, but heard Bart's soft scoff at her words. She looked back at him with an air of anger. "He's innocent now, Bart. He's a new man, a clean slate, and if you're not going to prove it, then I will. We're finally on his good side, and I want to stay there."

xXx

Nodding off only to slap himself awake every few minutes, Bob twirled the dagger around his fingers to pass the painfully slow moving time, ever so careful and skilled, never once letting his blade cut his fingers. At times closing his eyes absentmindedly, it appeared he could twirl the knife in his sleep, but a clink of metal dropping to the floor would startle him, and he'd have to remind himself where he was and pick up his only protection besides his bare, shaking fists. SLH kept him company for a few hours after the children left, but the dog scampered away to shovel down a bowl of kibbles and fall asleep at master Homer's feet near the couch. Robert sat patiently in a corner, eyeing the windows and trap door with a look of ferocity, as if he planned to throw his dagger in the first unlucky face that poked itself in. He wanted to finally meet his adversary, and show the fiend exactly who he dealt with. He wanted the bastard to beg for forgiveness, beg for his life, and Bob would take it before anyone had a chance to take his. He wanted to see it rain blood, Bart's bloo—

He unmistakably slapped himself, hard, to leave a mark on his cheek as red as his hair. His eyes wide with fear, he knew it was starting! Overall he didn't want to see Bart harmed, but a tiny impulse, a hint of his old desire, crept into his less sinister thoughts and tricked him into thinking of nothing else but revenge. He wanted to scream at himself, "NO! Fight it!" He imagined hacking away at whatever being was causing this, a spirit that kept telling him to slaughter the Simpsons, their neighbors, anyone who dared cross his path! He'd be yelling at the creature to leave him alone, that he had left that life behind, and he'd raise the knife to its throat. He threatened that he'd strike if it spoke to him again, if it kept telling him to kill then it would be the first to fall!...But the creature's face would twist and form into Bart's.

"I can't risk it." He whispered into the darkness, the stars in the sky just beginning to speckle over Springfield. "I need my pills. I need a clear head. I refuse to kill anyone but my assailant!"

Landing softly in the fresh summer grass, his silhouette against a pale moon slowly fading as deep purple clouds swirled around the only light in the sky. In an attempt to somewhat conceal his identity, his hair was pulled back into a very poofy ponytail with an old, discarded rubber band, but his easily recognizable palm tree physique would no longer be his downfall. He leapt into the night, leaving the security that was the Simpson's treehouse behind for the cruel, cold city that was prepared to devour him.


	6. Smooth Criminal

Very short chapter, sorry. A little busy.

Ch. 6: Smooth Criminal

Robert gave no one direct eye contact, but glanced at the general shapes of buildings and neon signs. Even after being fully acquainted with filthy prison life, he couldn't help but give disgusted looks at the littered streets, grotesque fat men, and the stores and clubs that were completely devoid of anything with cultural merit. With each step he came closer to the more shady neighborhoods with far worse conditions, and his heavily guarded halfway house. He expected and showed no concern for the numerous squad cars parked every few blocks, and no cop paid him any mind in return. It could have been his rising paranoia, but he might have heard the whispers of other midnight strollers who gave him less than comfortable stares. Something about his heavy frown and vicious visage kept the scammers and muggers away, save for one unfortunate…

Whether anyone suspected he was the infamous Sideshow Bob was anyone's guess, but it was most obvious that people were on the lookout for a much different hair style. Warning posters with his face were everywhere, yet he had no fear that any of the notoriously dumb residents of Springfield would make the connection. Taking a moment to tighten his ponytail, Bob stopped at a corner and turned to an alley, a fence in the distance blocking a familiar shortcut. He never shrank his posture or kept his head low, always walking proud and tall, proving to himself he could best anything this dreadful city could throw at him.

He halted again, narrowing his eyes and slowly placing his hands in his pockets. He never looked around to find the source of the noise, neither was he sure he heard anything at all, but he was overcome with this pestering feeling that another presence was near. _No doubt_, he thought. _I'm being followed._

Usually one with nature, thinking of verses in his spare time to praise it and aware of its power (a modern Romantic, maybe), it was as if nature itself sought to caution Robert. True he stood currently in a very concrete city, but a wind rushed past his ears, seeming to bring the sound of footsteps from the distance with it. Weeds sprouting out from the cracks in the sidewalk swayed wildly, as if motioning Bob to run to safety. The very cloudy sky opened momentarily for rays of moonlight to beat down on the path behind him, not allowing any miscreant to hide in the shadows. It was unkind technology that betrayed Bob, that caused his heart to stop, his skin to grow cold, and then begin to crawl.

"What the hell, Bob!" sputtered an angry walkie-talkie in his left pocket. Bob lost his tact as he scrambled desperately for the toy, near attempting to strangle the stupid device.

"Quiet, quiet!" he murmured, rasping as he held down the button.

"I knew you were up to something," Bart's voice answered crudely and, to Bob's displeasure, loudly. "Why aren't you in the treehouse? Where are you now?"

"Shut up, Bart!" added the sister, graciously in a soft voice. "You'll get him caught. He has to have his reason."

_Why did I bring along this blasted thing?_ Bob thought angrily, diving further into the alley.

"I'm going to get my pills from my house." Bob replied, crouching behind a trashcan.

"What?!" Lisa's voice rose. "Are you insane?"

"Don't answer that." Bart said smugly.

"I need them," Bob pressed. "If I don't get them, I'll—"

"It's too dangerous." Lisa declared. "Police will have your house surrounded. You need to come back, NOW. You'll be found!"

"I'll be found if you keep talking to me; now go back to bed, it's late." The older man said paternally. He shielded the walkie-talkie with his free right hand and lifted his nose like a stalked animal, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously.

"What you're doing is suicidal." Bart warned.

"Forgive me, children, but I shall return in the morning. Rest easy, you needn't worry about me; even with a scrambled head I know my way around these loathsome streets." With that he made sure he switched the toy off, and hoped that the kids wouldn't do anything drastic upon his arrival. He stood up warily, then saw something that instantly made his collar drenched with icy sweat. Behind the trashcan hobbled a figure with an outstretched hand.

Bob gritted his teeth, thrusting his hand into his right pocket and then lunging the dagger straight into the other man's gut. The stranger weakly clutched at his wound, choking on his own words, and collapsed into the alley as the dagger remained in Robert's stiff hand. The knife glistened with fresh blood as it slid through the man's gash, and was held triumphantly in the ex criminal's grasp. Bob glowered at his pitiful opponent, ready to stomp on his face in victory, but the stranger had cowered, shivering as he curled up in agony. Looking him over, Bob deduced this creature was unarmed and unknowing of whatever crime he had committed to deserve a blade in his stomach. The injured man wore ragged clothes, broken shoes, a worn hat, and a messy beard filled with crumbs, dirt, and tears of pain.

"I was just gonna ask for some spare change." The stranger said shakily, before possibly passing out.

Bob's stomach twisted as he backed against the wall, his realization striking him harder than the harsh ground when he was thrown off the bulls in the prison rodeo. Hands shaking feverishly, he clenched his bloodied dagger tightly in his right hand (nearly an extension of his skinny arm), still pointed at the subdued man, the plastic walkie-talkie sliding down his palm and crackling against the asphalt.

"Y-you're merely a bum!" Bob stammered. "An innocent bystander, dear God, what have I done?!" Strangely feeling cornered, he stood frozen for another minute before he wavered, then spun around and ran further down the alley, climbing the wire fence, and creeping away, further into the night. Weighed down by a guilty conscience, it didn't take long for him to lose his breath, and seek a brick wall for support as he watched more police cars flood into his neighborhood. The sun rose on another assuredly pleasant day.


	7. Dreamers Often Lie

Ch. 7: Dreamers Often Lie

Wow, very sorry for the wait peoples. I almost completely forgot about this thing. Well, uh…moving on. Warning though, one section might make you dizzy; dreams often do.

xXx

When the first rays of sunlight leaked through the little girl's window curtains, seeming to nudge her gently to open her eyes, Lisa gasped as she sat up with a sudden start. She didn't mean to fall asleep; she wanted to wait for the safe return of their refugee, but her tired eyes simply couldn't hold themselves open till morn. She looked down at her notebook and pen she had kept in her hands, even whilst in dreamland, the address written on the open page and the light from outside screaming at her to get up, get ready, and hurry!

She quickly put on her dress and shoes and tiptoed into Bart's room, making sure not to wake the parents. She found it amusing that Bart, too, had fallen asleep (slingshot still in hand), and was eager to show him he hadn't a single scratch. She looked out his window toward the treehouse, and hoped that Bob had made it back in time, before the light betrayed him.

The siblings made themselves bright and alert before bravely crawling up the ladder, not quite sure what to expect. The worst of their fears were relieved when they found the man alive, though not exactly very well. His back was turned to them as he held a sheet of paper onto a wall, shakily scribbling his words with a pen. His face was paler than usual, with half fearful, half enraged eyes glaring as he almost stabbed the piece of paper. His hair still pulled back into a ponytail (looking less wild and crazy) wasn't enough to make him appear composed. He didn't hear the children join him, but Santa's Little Helper, standing loyally by his side, had turned his head to signal their arrival. Robert flinched and seemed to try and hide what he was writing, which was completely futile.

"So, did you get your pills? What are you doing?" Bart asked darkly, a bit sulky he was proven wrong and Bob didn't kill him.

Bob hesitated and squirmed in their gazes, but eventually sighed and surrendered his unfinished note. Lisa accepted it and skimmed his unnaturally messy handwriting promptly.

"'Considering we may never get another chance to speak to each other, I thank you for your efforts now, and I apologize for ultimately wasting them. I'm turning myself in before it's too late.'— Wait, what?! You can't!" Lisa crushed the paper immediately. "If you're worried about being found, you're perfectly safe he—"

"I don't give a damn about my life anymore." Robert interrupted. SLH whimpered and lowered his head. "You two are the ones in danger. Everyone around me is! No, I didn't get my pills, and I'm just about to lose it. I could really hurt someone!"

"Looks like you already did." Bart joined in, head turned toward a bloodied knife in the corner. He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes for an explanation. Lisa's mouth gaped open as she looked at Bob with big, disappointed eyes.

"A-a bum, he-he snuck up on me in the alley." Bob stuttered, but knew that wasn't exactly a _good excuse_. "Don't you see? I can't be trusted, I don't want to hurt you!"

"But, Bob," Lisa started, near begging, forgiving him without delay. "The police aren't going to go easy on you. They think you've gone full blown insane and are a lost cause. The latest news break I saw said they'll shoot to kill, they won't listen to your story."

"But that's the risk I'm willing to take."

Bart made no attempt to keep the madman in his yard. He could care less if he stayed or got himself killed, so he continued to let his sister to do all the negotiating.

"Please, just give us this one more day." Lisa suggested. "We'll go to this guy's house, get him arrested, he'll confess, and you can get help."

Bob paused, amazed with himself that he gave it second thought and amazed with the children that they still wanted to help. He gathered his bearings and stopped shaking.

"Alright." He finally decided. "You have by this evening. If our target isn't in cuffs, then I will be." _Granted of course our law enforcement hasn't confused cuffs with coffin_, he grimly added in thought.

Lisa beamed then rushed down the ladder, calling for Bart to hurry and follow. Both guys looked down at her, thinking in unison how pleasant it must be to have such youth and optimism, and both, oddly, thought themselves too old and mature to smile about it. Bart made sure he gave Bob one more obligatory dirty look before leaving the treehouse. It clearly wasn't the outcome Bart wanted, preferring his old enemy simply disappear and they'd be done. However, Bart could almost call himself completely convinced that Bob spoke truth, and though he would never apologize for his justified suspicious attitude, if that was the way it had to be, he decided he'd try to make it less painful.

"Dude, try taking a nap." The boy suggested. "You haven't slept in days, right? Maybe you're not giving your psyche proper credit, maybe a knock out will take some of the punch out of your crazy."

Bob was at a loss for words. SLH made sure to eat the unfinished note that Lisa had dropped on the floor.

xXx

The children found themselves on the west side of Springfield, walking down the broken sidewalk of not a particularly good neighborhood, but they've certainly seen worse. Looking at each mailbox and then the piece of paper Lisa held in front of her, they finally found a matching address. Unfortunately, the next sight they were to behold would make their hopes sink.

"'For Sale.'" Bart said aloud, looking on a beaten house that has seen better days. "Well, that's it, no leads, no case, we're done."

"He could still be home!" Lisa told herself, about to bound up to the front door, but was stopped by the sound of a car braking in the house's driveway. The children turned to see a woman with black hair and a red coat, stomping up to the "For Sale" sign in her red pumps to nail a "Sold" sign on top. Lisa, courage returning, ran straight to her and gently tugged on the woman's red skirt. "Excuse me," she started. "Does the previous owner still live here?"

"Wha, this bum?" The woman shook her head. "Nah, was kicked out very recently though. I just visited him in the hospital to tell him he won't see a dime we get from this place."

"Hospital? What happened?"

"Eh, shanked in an alley. A shame his injury wasn't that bad, he probably would want to stay in that nice hospital bed for a while." The woman paused, scratching her head. "Wait a minute, why am I telling you all this? Why would you want to know, kid? That guy has no family except for maybe—"

"An alley." Lisa repeated softly, her brother stepping to her side.

"What's up?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Can it be?" the little girl asked no one in particular.

xXx

Bob had taken Bart's advice, but it wasn't instantly clear if it'd do him any good. He had sprawled himself out on one side of the treehouse, but SLH watched and whined as Bob gradually curled up and inched his way to a corner, as if he were helplessly ill. Bob writhed and gnashed his teeth, his unkind dreams giving him a beating to remember.

He felt like he was in a whirlpool of hellish color, dark images exploding all around him, tearing him apart as he circled the drain. Every moment of failure in his lifetime replayed in his mind, from light childhood mistakes to being strapped in an electric chair. They were then magnified with terrible screams of pain and fear, and not all of them were his own. He'd look down at his hands and find them forever stained with blood, then he'd grip his cranium as he swore he could feel a million bony hands ripping his hair out.

Finally, he was granted a moment of peace, or the closest thing to it. Bob hit the ground, hard, after falling for what seemed like an eternity. He didn't move for several moments, his eyes flitting as if the whirlpool continued to circle above him. He felt nauseous, his body numb, and didn't know which way was up, but from what he could tell, he was simply in a black abyss.

The eerie quiet calm of the place coaxed him to sit back up and eventually stand and explore. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked around, but he couldn't find a soul, and he dared not call out for one. For the moment, he very much preferred to be alone.

Unfortunately the stillness was invaded by a raspy chant by three feminine voices. They were accompanied by the sounds of burning wood and bubbling water.

"Fillet of a fenny snake, in the cauldron boil and bake, eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog—"

Bob spun around but could not see the source of the noises, or at least not until green smoke rose from their caldron. There were indeed three witches, or maybe strange women clad in ragged purple robes, gathered around a cauldron, their figures oddly familiar.

"Excuse me." Bob foolishly interrupted. "Apologies, ladies, but how do I get out of here?"

All three pairs of eyes rose and squinted harshly at the pitiful man, and he wavered as if their hatred would make him burst into flames. One of the women stepped forward, clenching her fists and lifting her hood, revealing the mother's trademark blue, skyscraper hair.

"Marge?!" Bob exclaimed, taking a step back and clutching his heart. The furious woman pointed an accusing finger which shot a stream of purple lightning that encircled her victim.

"The way out of here? Why our fiery stew! The only place that welcomes you!" she growled, Bob beginning to levitate. "Murderous beast, final ingredient of my spell, you'll never hurt my baby, I'll see you in hell!"

"Ravenous creature, breaker of my heart," another witch began, lifting her hood to reveal Selma. "I'll be the one blowing YOU apart!" She too pointed a finger and struck Bob with lightning.

"And I just plain don't like you." The final weird sister, Patty, snarled, then raised both her hands. The glowing green water exploded from the pot, engulfing the man and searing his skin.

Bob washed up on the shore of a sandy beach, littered with slimy seaweed and pointy, broken seashells. He scrambled to his feet, beside himself as he searched for the three witches, but instead he was greeted with a much friendlier face. An albatross soared above him, gradually descending to look him in the eye. Somehow, it calmed Bob's nerves and transformed his nervous frown into a relaxed smile.

"Hello there, can you show me the way out of here?"

"Hey hey!" was its cry.

"What?"

"Hey hey!" the albatross left him and headed back for the sea, leaving Bob unable to follow.

"Wait, come back!" Bob called, at first afraid to go back into what he remembered was boiling water. He looked up at the departing bird, and, this time, felt even more afraid to be alone. "Come back, please! I can't fly! I can't swim that far!"

"Hey hey!"

"Get back here!" Bob began to growl with frustration, a crossbow and arrow appearing in his hands. Without a clear train of thought, he drew the bow, the arrow flew, and the albatross fell.

The kill made him bolder, stronger, fearless! He was no longer helpless and cautious. No more would he cower or hold back!

With his newfound fury, he turned his pointed head at the sound of rustling leaves. He sniffed the air and got down on all fours, paws stepping lightly and tail twitching in the air. He had become a fox, and he found himself in a garden full of grapevines arranged in a maze. The grapes were ripe and delicious, but completely overlooked by the hungry carnivore.

He froze, eyes shifting back and forth, then he darted forward at breakneck speed. He had barely missed his target as a small white rabbit dove through the vines, small enough to not get entangled. Fortunately, the fox seemed to know his way around the vine maze perfectly, and he could meet the frightened rabbit around every corner. He never came close to tiring, so the poor bunny was doomed to have the fox hovering a very sharp claw threateningly over its neck.

"Please, man, let me go." The rabbit pleaded, with the voice of Bart. Bob's eyes widened with surprise that his prey spoke, but then he only growled even deeper, his claw growing ever sharper.

"Please, sir!" another rabbit cried, hers the voice of Lisa. She was hidden in the brush, shaking like a leaf and timidly coming forward. "We need to get home, to our family, our baby sister!"

At first, the animal showed no sign of sparing anyone, but his features softened once a melodious voice reached his pointy ears. He turned once more to see Francesca, holding their son Gino, in the distance, at the end of the grapevine maze.

"Roberto, mi amore!" She called, summoning him with her free hand.

During Bob's distraction the rabbit slinked away, but he could care less. The fox turned back into a man as he bounded forward. He threw his arms around the both of them and hugged so tight he thought he could never let go, and in truth, he wouldn't mind if they were frozen there like a statue till the end of time. The embrace was broken when he felt a chummy punch in the side and he met the eyes of his brother Cecil, with their parents a few steps behind him. Words needn't be exchanged: the family was reunited under peaceful terms.

Suddenly, the rabbits' cries rang out and for whatever reason, couldn't be ignored. Minutes before it would have been music to his ears, but after feeling such joy in his heart, cries of suffering and terror simply wouldn't fit. Robert held Francesca's hand tenderly and ruffled Gino's hair before he leapt into battle, in the garb of a royal soldier, or possibly a Greek god.

He yelped when he came across the fallen albatross from before, arrow still in its side as it lain in the dirt of the maze, yet it lifted its head and screeched "Hey hey!" once more, before collapsing with its tongue hanging out. Bob yanked the arrow out of the bird and rushed through the grapevine maze until he came upon a giant snake that had the rabbits cornered to a rocky wall.

The snake was maroon with black skull shaped symbols down its back, venom dripping from its fangs as it laughed heartily. Even with half of its body coiled, its head reared back high enough to reach the top of a tree. It hissed and prepared to strike, but Robert stood in its way, another bow appearing in his grasp. The serpent laughed again.

"Oh, Bob, you're a riot! I think you need a drink." Its yellow eyes gleamed as the tip of its leathery tail rose up and struck a group of vines. The tail came back, wrapped around a glass of wine. "Drink up, clown, drink up! Hahahahaha!"

Bob glared and drew his bow again, aiming for the demon's yellow eyes.

xXx

"Ahh! Ah!" Bob sprang up, his back against the wall. His collar was once again drenched with icy sweat, yet the shiftiness in his eyes had left him. He looked around frantically and lowered his voice quickly, panting heavily and struggling to figure out if he had come back to reality. He had a terrible migraine so he covered his eyes with his clammy hands. Warily looking back up, he saw SLH, wagging his tail and happy to see his newest friend looking significantly healthier.

Bob was still extremely dizzy, but he did remember one clear point from his feverish dream.

"I don't want to kill Bart." He said aloud, softly of course. "I don't want to kill Bart. I don't want to kill Bart." He repeated, each phrase said with greater confidence and a more sincere smile, though perhaps a risk. He nearly said it loud enough for someone outside to hear, but he was ecstatic in his enlightenment. "I don't want to kill Bart!" Then silence.

He heard footsteps coming up the ladder. Though a strange and perhaps slightly disturbing thing to sputter at someone upon their return, Bob couldn't wait to tell Bart the good news as he waited with anticipation.


	8. Race Against Crime

Sorry this is taking so long to finish, guys. I think there's only a few more chapters.

Ch.8: Race Against Crime

"Well?" Bart asked impatiently, his sister keeping her thoughts to herself. "What do we do?"

They hadn't moved. The saleslady had left, but Lisa tapped her chin with her finger as she stared at the unkempt lawn. Truth was she wasn't sure what step to take next. They hadn't found their suspect, and without any references, photos, or records they couldn't, but she couldn't let Bob turn himself in. If he did, it's quite possible no one would ever hear from him again. There was only one alternative.

"We go to the police." Lisa answered, businesslike. "We tell them our story and hope they take it well."

"You crazy?! Then they'll arrest Bob for sure!" Bart protested. "Uhm, not that I really care."

"But they know we've been right before when no one else had a clue, they'll listen to us. Yes, they will probably arrest Bob, but then he will definitely be safe while they help us find our suspect." She explained. "I don't really like this plan, but better we turn Bob in than he does, cause then he'll still have a chance when the police see that we've defended him."

"Then why didn't we turn him in days ago?" Bart suggested, notably annoyed.

"Because there's still the chance we've failed him, that it won't matter what we say if we don't have any evidence…" Lisa said sadly. She closed her eyes and tried to do away with such a notion, but then she slapped her fist in her other palm. "Wait a second, maybe we do!"

xXx

"What?!" Chief Wiggum dropped his coffee. The smiley face mug shattered on his office floor, and other officer's outside the closed door paused to look his direction. They hurriedly shrugged it off and went back to their own work. The chief quickly hushed his voice. "You two, of all people, have been hiding Sideshow Bob?!"

"Please, hear us out, Sir." Lisa said calmly. She sat in a spare chair in front of the man's desk as Bart looked towards the door, nervous someone could hear.

"Is this a case of Sherlockholm syndrome?" The Chief pried.

"You mean Stockholm." Lisa corrected. "Wait, NO." Her voice rose dangerously higher.

"Well, kids, you know it's a serious offense to be harboring a fugitive," the Chief lectured, stepping away from his desk and glaring at the kids like a hawk. " And…really? Sideshow Bob? Why are you helping him?"

"Because we know he didn't rob that bank." Lisa said proudly, slapping her hands on the desk.

"Still, he's definitely done a lot of other things you should be sore about." The man quipped.

"But he's a changed man and this is the truth." She defended. "The real thief is still out there, out to kill Bob, and no one but Bart and I have been looking for him. We'll lead you to Bob, but he won't have your precious city's money." Wiggum hesitated, narrowed his eyes, then motioned for her to present her case. Lisa's smile was near devilish, pleased that this little girl knew exactly what to say to get an authority to listen. "Consider these theories." She flipped the pages of her notebook, and found the red leaf from the bank. "Have you watched that security camera footage _carefully_, Chief Wiggum? If you did, you would have noticed this falling from the wig of our faux Sideshow Bob. See the glue residue on the back of the leaf, here? It was actually a very cheap product, but I guess that's why he's robbed a bank. He didn't have the money to buy a decent imitation." The Chief fiddled with his hat as he considered the possibility.

"Exhibit two." Bart joined in, snatching the notebook and showing the officer a bartender's reference. "Moe's testimony. He saw one of his customers talking with Bob, and then he helped him spend his unemployment check on drinks for the entire bar." The Chief folded his arms, hardly impressed. "This bum intended to get Bob drunk, then frame him for robbery."

"We found the bum's house." Lisa went on. "It was For Sale, but he wasn't there. A woman reported that he was in the hospital for a knife wound he got in an alley. Bob had told us he stabbed a man the night before, though he didn't mean to. He said the man snuck up on him. We think Bob had good instincts, that the man who was following him that night was going to kill him!" Wiggum still wasn't convinced, and he sighed with pity for these imaginative children.

"Ok, fine, one more thing." Bart insisted, stepping forward. "You have Bob's supposed 'suicide note?' " Wiggum's eyes grew wider at such a strange request, but he dug through his desk's papers and slapped the note on the table, tightly sealed in a plastic bag. Bart didn't need to have it in his grasp. He jumped up on a chair and hovered over the piece of paper as he read it over, not even required to finish it. Lisa examined it as well, and had her two cents to say about it.

"That's not written with a pricked finger, which is Bob's style." She said confidently. "The color is too bright a red, it has to be paint, not blood. You can even see the brush strokes."

"More important than that." Bart stopped her, digging into his pocket and handing over an old crumpled up piece of paper. The Chief opened it with an unsure look and read aloud.

" 'Die Bart Die.' You kept one of his threat letters?"

"Don't you see?" Bart pointed at the forged note. "That doesn't come close to Bob's handwriting. It's fake! Only made to throw you off!" Lisa beamed with pride, glad to see that her brother rediscovered his passion for solving a case.

"…Ok, kids." Wiggum sighed, his hand clutching the doorknob of his office. "We'll have to take Bob into custody since he is the prime suspect, but for bringing him in we'll humor your little detective work. We'll look for this bum you've been talking about."

xXx

As the police car pulled up to the driveway of the Simpson residence, the two kids anxiously riding in the passenger seat swung the door open and jumped out before the Chief made a complete stop. He eventually bumbled out and followed them with an awkward run to their backyard, where they would have immediately climbed up to the treehouse, but instead he found them staring at their father in hysterics. Homer laughed boorishly at the expense of the greyhound, the poor creature having a watering can stuck on his head.

"Ba ha hahaha! Stupid dog, isn't he?" Homer pointed and continued to laugh at the free entertainment from his lawn chair, not bothering to help his dog as he ran into the fences and walls and tree trunk multiple times. Lisa somewhat glared at her father before she rushed to SLH's aide.

When the dog was freed, he started barking madly and howling into the sky, seemingly in deeper stress than seconds before.

"What's wrong with you now, boy?" Homer asked, perplexed. He grunted as he rolled out of his chair and approached the dog, then leaned over to scratch behind his ears as if to make amends. SLH rejected the comfort, ran to the base of the tree and continued to bark, darting his head up and around frantically.

"Santa's Little Helper?" Bart started warily.

"He must know that Bob's hiding in the tree," Wiggum interrupted, taking his gun out of his holster. The children flinched. "Sorry, kids, standard procedure." The chunky man then struggled up the ladder.

"Wait, Bob?!" Homer shouted excitedly. "Wha'd I miss?"

"Don't worry, Dad, everything's under control!" Lisa said over her shoulder as she too climbed up the ladder. This left father and son alone, the former waiting for a good explanation but standing with a blank face.

"It's Lisa's fault." Bart summarized before joining the Chief and his sister. Unfortunately, the Chief had been pointing his gun in an empty treehouse. Bob had completely vanished.

"Ok, you punks. Where is he?" He said, agitated. "You know lying to an officer is also a serious crime…at least I think it is."

"Bu-but, he was here!" Lisa insisted, quickly glancing over the scratched up walls and the scattered objects on the floor.

"Then you're stupid punks. Bob played you like saps." The Chief huffed as he put his gun away with frustration.

"I knew it!" Bart growled, familiar anger returning faster than lightning. "He knew we would turn him in so he escaped!" SLH argued with a desperate howl.

"No." Lisa decided, visage turning grim. She slowly turned to the guys and pointed to certain sections of the room. "There are signs of a struggle."

The boys raised their eyebrows and looked more closely at the chipped wood, broken pens, dirty shoe prints on scattered bits of paper, and a bloody tooth in the middle of the floor. The knife from before cut deep into the far wall, a fragment of a torn business shirt clinging to the blade. They felt almost ashamed to raise their gazes to the girl and ask their next question.

"Well," started the officer cautiously. "Who won?"

"Bob was cornered, he wouldn't have anywhere to go." She got down on one knee to examine the tooth more carefully. "His attacker knew this, but he definitely put up a fight; this thing is rotten to the core. No way was it knocked out of Bob's mouth." She listened to SLH's cries with a heavy heart. Twas likely the animal attempted to help their former foe, but was incapacitated with a gardening tool early in battle. She stood back up and crossed her arms.

"Then it's too late." Bart concluded darkly. "We have no idea where he's been taken, or if he's still alive." Lisa scowled, she refused to believe such a thing, she refused to give up this fight!

_There must be another clue_, she thought. All of their evidence had been circumstantial, but surely there was one more detail that could seal this man's fate. Anything that could give them the faintest of leads. She thought back to the forged suicide note, and reassembled every phrase in her head. _How would Bob be killed?_

"That's it!" She exclaimed, rushing down the ladder.

"What's it?" the officer asked, left dumfounded.

" 'Out with a bang!' " She quoted excitedly as she ran back to the police car. "Hurry! We need to get to Springfield Ravine!"

"We have a ravine?" Bart asked skeptically. However, the boys didn't think it wise to question further, so they ran past awestruck Homer and jumped back into the car. The dog forced himself through the car door and sat in the passenger seat, in the children's laps, before Wiggum decided to let him in the back seat.

The car sped away, leaving Homer, scratching the back of his neck. He would have moved, but he felt dizzy, like he had watched a poorly edited action movie that went by too fast. The back door suddenly swung open, and a terribly shaky Marge rushed to his side.

"Homie! My motherly instincts are tingling!" she told him with the most worried of faces. Her husband blinked a couple of times before coming back to reality with a very confused but a very frightened face as well. He wringed his hands as he thought through his response carefully, but it wouldn't matter. The parents were about to panic no matter which words he used.

"Um, sorry, honey. Looks like they should have tingled before the dog got stuck in the can."


End file.
